


Falling Angels

by taichara



Category: Gundam Wing Frozen Teardrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The President of Mars receives an unexpected visitor.  Alas, he's not as in control of their 'relationship' as he thinks he is.</p>
<p>Takes place after <i>The Beginning And The End</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Angels

"Good evening, Mister President."

The words hissed out of the darkness mere moments after Milliardo, free of the day's meetings and 'negotiations', sat himself down at the massive desk that dominated his office. Perfectly polite, perfectly controlled, those words had been -- and laced with barely concealed fury.

Milliardo did not deign to turn and face the source of that voice that his own sounded so very akin to. Turning to face the window and it's no-doubt occupant would be a sign of weakness, and he would never show weakness. 

Not to a fool, and especially not to _this_ one.

Instead, he sifted through the papers on his desktop, smiling serenely, before pulling a small bottle of cognac from a side drawer and pouring a dainty snifter of the blushing liquor, careful not to spill a droplet on the immaculate white of his dress suit. Unhurried, unperturbed. From the window came only the tiniest of movements; his smile widened, ever so slightly.

"I suppose I'll say 'good evening' back to you, Cyrene, if it means that you might go away again."

Dead silence. Milliardo chuckled.

"What do you think you can do, perched there like an idiot? You don't dare to strike; you will _never_ have the temerity to try to strike me down. You don't dare to try."

"Tell me about Major-General Zechs Merquise."

.. Now _that_ drew his attention. Very slowly, very pointedly, Milliardo rose from his seat again -- drink still cradled -- and shifted stance just enough to see his would-be accuser. Cyrene Wind crouched on the sculptured sill like some ill-tempered bird of prey, dull black armoured bodysuit not remotely concealed by the billowing grey coat. Wind's hair was roughly hacked short; a smudge of ... oil? blood? ... marked one cheek below the omnipresent black visor. A study in roughness, contrasted with the President's sleek white and gold.

"I see you've decided to cut your hair --"

" _Enough_."

Cyrene's snarl was echoed by a twitch of one gloved hand, too close to possible concealed holsters for comfort; Milliardo's smile dissolved, replaced by a grim, tight line. Bastard. How dare he threaten.

"What makes you think I have anything to tell you, if I were inclined? Merquise serves the secessionists. Go fly to their desert scratches and speak to _them_ about him.

"After all, Lanigreen's gone one step further than I have. I've only borrowed this --"

\-- he touched the snifter to his chest --

"-- but they've given an entire other _you_ life, haven't they? 

"Do you hate him, Cyrene, as much as you hate me? Am I going to savour the impending pleasure of having you remove a future thorn in my side -- the joy of seeing you, of all people, bolster the strength of my position -- because of his existence?

"Because, trust me, I will _savour_ every last moment of that."

Another shift in posture, another twitch of one hand from the looming Wind. That was quite enough; Milliardo gestured with his glass toward Cyrene, toward himself, toward the ornate imported-oak doors and all that lay beyond them.

"Kill me, and the killswitch will end your sister's life.

"Kill her, and take ... hm, _how_ many hundreds of thousands of other innocents with her? And the not so innocent as well -- like that dissolute priest of yours."

His smile returned, sharp and venomous.

"That priest who happens to harbour your daughter -- did you think my agents would fail to track her down --"

_*shhhhnng*_

Milliardo was showered in glass fragments, glittering shards like teardrops as the cognac splashed across him, staining his jacket red ...

... red like the blood drenching his hand, soaking into his sleeve. He swore, clutching his arm, refusing to double over. 

In his desk's polished surface quivered a lone matte-black blade, sharp as the wind.

The window sill was empty. 

He hadn't seen the man move.

_Damn you!_

He slapped the desk's hidden panic button, slumped into his chair. Waited for the teams to arrive. In moments he'd issue orders to capture the bastard, dead or alive. Cradling his arm, Milliardo shrugged out of the ruin of his jacket, worked on tying off the blood flow.

It didn't matter what tricks the fool could pull. It did _not_ matter.

Cyrene Wind was just a man. Just _one_ man. One man could not topple a government; not when he couldn't even command his own identity. Just one man, forced to hide his family from the planet's rightful government.

As medics swarmed and military techs awaited their orders, Milliardo Peacecraft, President of Mars, made a resolution:

It was time to pay a visit to his 'sister'.


End file.
